Delsarte System of Oratory · Chapter 38Episode I
This chapter is not translated yet. You are reading the original.
The subject in question was a scene in the play of the Maris-Garçons. The young officer, whose part I was studying, met his former landlord after an absence of several years, and as he owed him some money, he desired to show himself cordial.
"Ah! how are you, papa Dugrand?" he says, on encountering him. This apostrophe is, therefore, a mixture of surprise, soldierly bluntness and joviality.
At the first words I was stopped short by an almost insurmountable difficulty. This difficulty was all in my gesture. Do what I would, my manner of accosting papa Dugrand was grotesque; and all the lessons that were given me on that scene, all the pains I took to profit by those lessons, effected no change. I paced to and fro, saying and resaying the words: "How are you, papa Dugrand?" Another scholar in my place would have gone on; but the greater the difficulty seemed to me, the higher my ardor rose. However, I had my labor for my pains.
"That's not it," said my instructors. Good heavens! I knew that as well as they did; but what I did not know was why that was not it. It seems that my professors were equally ignorant, since they could not tell me exactly in what my way differed from theirs.
The specification of that difference would have enlightened me, but all remained, with them as with me, subject to the uncertain views of a vague instinct.
"Do as I do," they said to me, one after the other.
Zounds! the thing was easier said than done.
"Put more enthusiasm into your greeting to papa Dugrand!"
The greater my enthusiasm, the more laughable was my awkwardness.
"See here; watch my movements carefully!"
"I do watch, but I don't know how to go to work to imitate you; I don't seize the details of your gesture." (It varied with every repetition.) "I don't understand why your examples, with which I am satisfied, lead to nothing in me."
"You don't understand! You don't understand! It's very simple! Really, your wits must have gone wool-gathering, my poor boy, if you are unable to do what I have shown you so many times. Watch closely now!"
"I am watching, sir, with all my eyes."
"You certainly see that the first thing is to stretch out your arms to your papa Dugrand, since you are so pleased to see him again!"
I stretched out my arms to their utmost extent; but my body, not following the movement, still wanted poise, and recoiled into a grotesque attitude. My teacher, for lack of basic principles to guide him, was unable to correct my awkwardness; and, vexed at his inability which he wished to conceal, fell back on blaming my unlucky intellect.
"Fool," said he finally, "you are hopelessly stupid! Why are you so embarrassed? Are my examples, then, worthless?"
"Indeed, sir, your examples are perfect."
"Well, then, imitate them, imbecile!"
"I will try, sir."
In this, as in all preceding lessons, I could give only a blind imitation, which had not the small merit of being twice alike, even in my own eyes, for every time I reproduced them I observed marked variations which the master did not perceive.
I went to my room, as I had done many times before, with tears in my eyes and despair in my heart, to renew my useless efforts, vainly turning and returning in all lights my unfortunate papa Dugrand.
This cruel ordeal lasted five months without the least progress to lessen its bitterness.
Heaven knows with what ardor I cultivated my papa Dugrand! I thought of him by day, and I dreamed of him by night. I clung to him with all the frenzy of despair, for I was determined not to be beaten. I was bound to triumph at any cost, for it was life or death to me. I resolved not to give up papa Dugrand, even though he should resist me ten years!
My unceasing repetitions of (to them abominable) papa Dugrand caused my comrades to call me a bore. In short, I became disagreeable to all around me. Alas! all this study, all these efforts, could not overcome the stubborn resistance of papa Dugrand. My teachers were at their wits' end, and finally refused to give me another lesson on the subject. But nothing could daunt the ardor of my zeal.
One day I was measuring the court-yard of the Conservatory, as usual, in company with papa Dugrand, and repeating my "how are you?" in every variety of tone, when, all at once, having got as far as: "How are you, pa--," I stopped short without finishing my phrase. It was interrupted by the sight of a cousin of mine, whose visit was most unexpected.
"Ah! how are you?" I said; "how are you, dear cou--"
Here my words were again interrupted by a surprise; but this surprise was far greater than that caused by the appearance of my cousin. Struck by the analogy between this greeting and the unstudied attitude which I had assumed under the action of a genuine emotion, I cried in a transport of joy which bewildered my innocent cousin: "Leave me--don't disturb me--I've got it--wait for me--stay where you are--I've got it."
"But what is it that you've got?"
"The dickens, papa Dugrand!"
Thereupon I vanished like a flash, to run to my mirror and reproduce to my sight papa Dugrand, Judge of my astonishment: not only my gesture, until now so persistently awkward, seemed suddenly metamorphosed and became harmonious and natural; but, stranger yet, it did not correspond in the least to what had been prescribed. However, it was nature herself that had revealed this to me. Then, the movements of my body, but a moment before so discordant in my eyes, had acquired, under the influence of this gesture inspired from above, an ease and a grace that filled me with surprise. Without doubt, I now possessed the truth. An emotion, spontaneously produced and so deeply felt, could not result in an error.
This is what had happened under the action of a natural surprise:
My hands were not extended toward the object of my surprise--not the least in the world. By an anterior extension of the arms, they were raised high above my head, which, far from being uplifted with the exultation which I had hitherto simulated, was lowered to my breast; and my body, stranger yet, instead of bending toward the attractive object, bent suddenly backward.
What a blow nature had given to my masters! What an overthrowal of all conjectures! My reason, before this sovereign decision, was humbled and dumbfounded. What arguments could my instructors invoke in the face of truth itself?
"What," thought I, "are my masters absolutely ignorant of the laws of nature?"
"What, does their reason, as well as mine, know nothing of all this? How is it that this much-praised reason has inspired me with effects precisely opposite to those that were prescribed? What is reason? Is it, then, a blind faculty?"
Let us first see what these strange phenomena, whose importance I cannot deny without denying nature herself, signify.
I was in the midst of these reflections when the recollection of my cousin came into my mind.
"Good heavens," thought I; "I had forgotten all about my poor cousin; what will he think? I will hurry down, and, lest my precious ideas take flight, send him away, and return to my reflections.
"Wretch that I am; I think only how to get rid of him, when he has so enriched me! This is a lesson to me. Poor boy! What opinion will he have of me? Ah, that is he whom I see stretched out on that stone bench. He has been patient, indeed. I believe that he is asleep!"
"No, I am not asleep," said he, rising; "I am furious! Explain, if you are not too insane to be rational, the extraordinary manner in which you received me. Do you know that I have been waiting here for you more than an hour?"
"Ah, my dear cousin," said I, embracing him warmly, "you do not know what a service you have rendered me. I embrace you now, my good friend, for the wonderful lesson you have given me. Without you I should never have found it out, and, rest assured, I shall never forget it."
"What? Who? What is it?"
"Zounds, papa Dugrand! I freely acknowledge that I have learned more from you in one second than from all my masters during four years."
"Are you in your right senses?"
The matter was finally explained. My cousin then told me about my home and my family; but I must confess that I paid little attention to the good news that he brought me, so excited and preöccupied was my mind. Even then I could not help thinking of the fragility of the heart in its affections. We soon separated, and I hurried to my room, which seemed to me on this day-paradise itself.
I gave myself up to my interrupted course of reflections.
I had proved the impotence of my own reason, and also that of my masters. Now, as it was not probable that all my teachers and myself were more stupid than the rest of mankind--the common herd--I concluded that reason is blind in the matter of principles, and that all her instructions would be powerless to guide me in my researches. But, from another side, it was evident to me that without this reason I could not utilize a principle. What is human reason, that faculty at once of so little avail and yet so precious? What role does it play in art? I feel that this is most important for me to know.
The answer to this question must spring from the study of the phenomena of instinct. Let us examine, then, what nature offers us freely.
If these phenomena are directed by a physiological or a spiritual necessity, a necessity on which instinct is based, I am forced to admit, here, a reason that is not my reason; a superior, infallible reason in the disposition of things; a reason that laughs at my reason, which, in spite of itself, must submit under pain of falling into absurdity. I feel that it is only by this absolute submission of my reason that it can rise to the reason of things, since, of itself, it would know nothing. [See definition of reason.]
Let us seek, then, without prejudice, the reason of the things that interested me, in order that my own reason may be raised to a higher plane. And when it shall be illumined with the light that must break upon it from the superior reason, I feel that my reason can generalize instruction, and will be all-powerful in arranging the conclusions that it may deduce. I am aware, from the utter impotence of my reason, that all principles must be accepted humbly, in order to understand the deductions. My reason does not know how to lead me to principles of which it is ignorant; but it knows how to guide me back. In other words, it is a blind person a priori, it is a luminary a posteriori. Though it may not know at first, once shown, it readily recognizes; though it may not divine, it learns by study; though it may not seize, it retains, masters and generalizes.
Reason, then, is a reflex power, and as such, if, in a matter of principle, it recognizes itself as impotent and even absurd a priori, it knows that once in possession of the principle, it borrows from its light and becomes identified with it--an incomparable power of generalization.
Let the reason of the attitudes that I had observed be once shown me, and my individual reason would possess the Archimedean lever with which I might open unknown worlds.
My reason! Ah! I will identify it with the reason of things! Henceforward this shall be my method, this shall be my law.
But the reason of things--who will give it to me? Is it not my reason itself? Oh, mystery! I will follow thee to the depths of thy abyss. Thou shalt have no more secrets from me, for God has said that He hides only from the wise and prudent man, but reveals Himself to the simple and to children. Yes, these things shall be given to me through my reason, if it will bow itself and be attentive and humble; if it will patiently await the teachings of a mute and persevering observation; if it will subordinate itself to the intuitive lights that constitute genius; and, finally, if it knows how to estimate things other than itself.
Thus my reason, established, inflamed, consumed by the charm of its contemplation, will be transfigured in order to be more closely united to the sovereign reason toward which it ever reaches out.
The first fruit of my observation consists in making me recognize, in the facts examined, the proof of a superior and infallible reason, and then to arm against my individual reason and all its errors. Another thing yet more strange, but easily comprehended on reflection, is that to this defiance, this contempt of self, I owe the boldness and the power of my investigations.
Let us see, now, from which observations the preceding thoughts are the direct result.
In the phrase, "How are you, etc.," my reason dictated this triple, parallel movement: Advancing the head, and the arms, with the torso on the fore-leg. Now, the similar phrase, "How are you, dear cousin," although uttered in a situation identical with that of papa Dugrand, produced phenomena diametrically opposed to those that my reason had said were the only ones admissible. Is it not reasonable to suppose that the sight of an agreeable or loved object will excite in us a genuine feeling that before we had vainly striven to simulate? Does it not seem natural to extend the hand to a friend when, with affectionate surprise, we exclaim: "How are you, dear friend?" And should we ever think of drawing the body away from the object that attracts us? Finally, does it not seem that the head should be raised, the better to see that which charms us?
Ah, no! All these things, apparently so true and so perfectly clear, are radically false. Facts prove this beyond a doubt, and with facts there can be on discussion, no argument. We must admit them a priori or renounce the truth. Here, as in all questions of principle, the greatest act of reason consists in an act of faith. This is absolutely undeniable.
In the phrase, "How are you, papa Dugrand," the arms should be raised, the head lowered and the torso thrown back, supporting itself on the back leg. This was indeed a blow to the presumption of my poor reason, but should it complain? No, for it has gained even from its confusion most fruitful instruction.
Let us see. In questioning the effects and the analogy, we shall doubtless explain their reason of being. Why should the head become lowered? I do not see all at first sight; but let us generalize the question and probably it will specify itself.
When does a man bow his head before the object which strikes his eye?
When he considers or examines it.
Does he never consider things with head raised?
Yes, when he considers them with a feeling of pride. It is thus that he rules them or exalts them; and also when he questions them with his glance; in fine, when what he sees astonishes or surprises him.
This last statement contradicts the example in question, and seems to condemn it. Not the least in the world. How is this? Thus: when the astonishment or the surprise is not intense enough to shake the frame, the head wherein all the surprise is concentrated, is lifted and exalted. But so soon as that surprise is great enough to raise the shoulders and the arms, as by a galvanic shock, the head takes an inverse direction, it sinks and seems anxious to become solid to offer more resistance to that which might attack it, for the first instinctive movement in such a case is to guard against any unpleasant event; then if the head is lifted to look at that which surprises it, it is because it has no great interest in the recognition of that which it considers; but as soon as that interest commands it to examine, to recognize, it is instantly lowered and placed in the state of expectation.
O, now it becomes clear.
Now, how does surprise cause us to lift our arms?
The shoulder, in every man who is agitated or moved, rises in exact proportion to the intensity of his emotion.
It thus becomes the thermometer of the emotions. Now, the commotion that imprints a strong impression, communicates to the arms an ascending motion which may lift them high above the head.
But why do not the arms, in an agreeable surprise, tend toward the object of that surprise?
The arm should move gently toward the object that it wishes to caress. Under the rapid action of surprise, therefore, it could only injure or repel that object.
This it does in affright.
But instinct--that marvelous agent of divine reason--in that case turns the arms away from the object which they might injure by the rapidity of their sudden extension, and directs them toward heaven, leads them to rise as if expressing thanks for an unexpected joy, so true it is that everything is turned to use and is modified under the empire of our instinct. Certainly, there is no similarity between this and the superfluous action, the inconsequent movements determined by the working of a rule without a reason. And this is so because in all that instinct suggests, it is the Supreme Artist himself who disposes of us and acts in us, while whatever is suggested by a reason insufficiently inspired by the contemplation of the divine handiwork is fatally incoherent, for we thus pretend to substitute ourselves for God, and God thenceforth leaving us to ourselves, surrenders us to all the discordant effects of an inconsequential and vain conception.
It remains to find the justificatory reason for this retroactive movement of the body, which seems illogical at first sight.
Let us inquire in what case and under the action of what emotions a man may shrink from the object which he is considering.
In the first place, he shrinks back whenever it inspires him with a feeling of repulsion. He shrinks from it particularly when it inspires him with fright. This is a matter of course and self-evident.
In what case does the body take an inverse direction to the object which attracts it? This we must know before we can explain the phenomenon in question.
We move away from the thing which we contemplate to prove to it, doubtless, the respect and veneration that it inspires. In fact, it seems a lack of respect to that which we love to approach it too closely; we move away that we may not profane it by a contact which it seems might injure its purity.
Thus the retrograde movement may be the sign of reverence and salutation, and moreover a token that the object before which it is produced is more eminent and more worthy of veneration.
A salutation without moving shows but little reverence, and should only occur in the case of an equal or an inferior.
In justification of the actual fact, let me give another observation of quite another importance.
When a painter examines his work, he moves away from it perceptibly. He moves away in proportion to the degree of his admiration of it, so that the retroactive movement of his body is in equal ratio to the interest that he feels in contemplating his work, whence it follows that the painter who examines his work in any other way, reveals his indifference to it.
The picture-dealer usually proceeds in quite another manner. He examines it closely and with a magnifying-glass in hand. Why is this? Because it is less the picture which he examines than the handiwork of the painter, the actual work which is the chief object of his survey.
But why does the artist move away from the work which he contemplates? The better to seize the total impression. For instance: if it be a full length portrait and the artist studies it too closely he sees, I will suppose, the nose of his portrait and nothing more. If he moves a little farther off he sees a little more, he sees the head; still farther and he sees both the head and the torso which supports it. Finally, moving still farther away, he gets a view of the whole and thus seizes its harmonious relations. This inspection may be called synthetic vision, and in opposition to this, direct vision, which I assumed before instinct taught me better, is but short and limited.
To sum up: If instinct did not lead us to retroact, to examine an object unexpectedly offered to our gaze, each surprise would expose us to error.
Now we must retroact to see an object as a whole and not expose ourselves to error, and then, too, does not the love which a creature inspires within us naturally extend to the medium which surrounds him, and in this way does it not seem as if all that touched him partook of his life and thus acquired some title to our contemplation?
Thus my mind, tortured by one preoccupying thought, had, thanks to the fixed idea which swayed it, found wondrous lessons in the simple incident of my cousin's return, otherwise so devoid of interest; and I may truly say that the lesson learned from meeting my cousin taught me more than all those I had received in the space of three years. In short, I had learned how vain is advice dictated by the caprice of a master without a system! I had learned the inanity of individual reason in a matter of experience. I knew that certain laws existed, that those laws proceeded from a Supreme Reason, an immense centre of light, of which each man's reason is but a single ray. I knew without a doubt how ignorant my masters were of those laws to the study of which I meant to devote my life. I possessed facts which I saw could be applied in countless ways, luminous doctrines radiating from the application.
Thenceforth I had the nucleus of the science I had so vainly asked of my masters, and I did not despair of formulating it.
Judge of my joy! The facts I then found myself the possessor of, seemed to me more valuable than all the treasures of the world.